Tabitha is not picky.
Tabitha is not persnickety.
Tabitha is simply the editor of an eminent literary journal.
She understands her responsibilities.
She is the midwife of poetry, the doula for literature. She holds a red pen like the Statue of Liberty holds her lantern. She knows that we survive on stories.
This is the reason for the words on many lips: “Tabitha likes people on her own terms.”
These are not the words Tabitha would choose, but she respects writers’ right to be wrong. Tabitha likes everyone. Tabitha even loves everyone, because everyone is a story that breathes.
Some stories center on poultry. She nominates these for Pushcarts and Pulitzers.
But Tabitha has terms and conditions. You can’t just let people start paragraphs in the middle of the page. Few will ever know how many times civilization has been saved by 1″ margins and 12-point font. The only thing more dangerous than Comic Sans is a human hand petting without punctuation.
Such hands must be nipped, not published. But this is in the interest of making them better storytellers next time.
Tabitha edits ruthlessly. But this is in the interest of loving truthfully.
Tabitha is enthusiastic about “creative nonfiction.” By all means, recast your Uncle Bernard as Bad Bunny when you write the story of your family trip to Omaha. Give yourself pink hair and a boyfriend named Viggo.
But make sure you’re honest under all that creativity, or Tabitha will bite you, pity you, and be forced to send a form email: “Thank you for the opportunity to read your work, but I’m afraid it’s not a fit for this journal at this time.”
If it sounds as though I know both Tabitha and rejection, you are correct.
I am both foolish enough to send my mewling prose into the jaws of literary journals, and wise enough to receive the comfort of tabbies. The first rejects me and dares to disclaim, “this is not a reflection on the quality of your writing, only of our needs at this time.” The latter accepts me without letting me forget, “everything is a reflection of our needs at all times.”
A good editor makes you better. Far from casting you in her own image, she pushes you to be more yourself, even if that means your dreams of Pushcart Prizes derail into the litter box. Far from straitjacketing your story, she sets an example of honesty.
This is how Tabitha became the editor of an eminent literary journal in the first place.
The best editor never surpasses the role of “storyteller,” and Tabitha’s story is still being told. She will take her time, building suspense without selling discount drama.
She was loved, you know, loved as well as a children’s book with the title rubbed faint from constant handling. She was loved, but love is less obedient than literature. Love was not at fault when Tabitha lost her person. No one was at fault but a brittle world.
Tabitha nuzzles people on her own terms, but any true editor is always in love. You will not read this in her byline, but it’s true. Tabitha still believes the best stories have yet to be lived. Tabitha still believes this gangly world was spoken into being by words of love.
Tabitha listens intently to words of love. I am not being poetic. I implore you to test me on this.
Tabitha listens, takes notes, and finally trades the red pen for the first rustling pages of trust.
Tabitha has loved, and been loved, and will love again, and again, and again.
Tabitha is editing a masterpiece.
Every editor was once a rejected writer. Every writer who keeps writing will finally be accepted. Every day, we will tell Tabitha love’s true story until she reads her own name, clear as dawn’s first word.
Epilogue: The editor has become the adoptee. That’s right. Tabitha’s novel was published by love itself, and she’s reading love notes in her forever home.